


a lie on his lips

by flyingtheblack



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, and it might have knocked the timeline out slightly, and plenty of them being snarky bastards, and they're both in pain emotionally, because you'll never convince me these two aren't canon to a certain degree, but that might be a stretch, i want to say chapter two is fluffier, in which silver is in pain physically, it's mostly canon compliant, just a lot of pain really, so i've taken canon events on a very small detour here, stops short of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 14:04:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13882419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingtheblack/pseuds/flyingtheblack
Summary: John Silver is a liar, and mostly he's fine with it. But some lies matter more than others, and some people's trust is important.





	1. Chapter 1

He has no idea how many lies he’s told during his life. He doesn’t know how you survive in the world without lying, really. They’ve spilled from his mouth, easy as blinking, ever since he learnt to talk. They’ve saved his life.

There are some lies that matter, though. Not the ones that have gone wrong; there have been plenty of those, and he’s survived them all. Barely remembers most of them, except for the lessons he learnt from them. No, the big lies, the important ones, are the ones that burn through his brain like the pain in that bloody stump, keeping him staring up at the stars through the night instead of sleeping. 

The number of _those_ lies he's told, he can count on his remaining limbs. 

*

_You're not welcome._

What Silver can’t stop thinking about is the ugly, flat way Flint said it, with that little twisted smile of his. 

If Flint had roared and sworn and spat insults at him, it would have rolled off like water poured over wax. But with those words, he saw something like hatred in the level gaze Flint aimed at him, and the worst part is that he can’t even tell himself it’s not deserved. 

Even after everything he’s done for Flint. After he won the vote with Hornigold for him, after he saved the ship from Vane, after he lost his leg to protect the crew. Even after all that, in the moment when he woke after Charles Town with half a limb gone, when Flint was looking at him with something more like friendliness than he ever had before, in that moment Silver lied. Again. As always. 

And for what? To protect himself from Flint’s anger, to preserve that friendliness a little longer? Sometimes he wonders whether Flint already knows, has known all along, since the moment Vincent and Nicholas made their first report about the Spanish gold.

What Silver can’t stop thinking about is why the ever-loving fuck he _cares_ what Flint thinks of him. 

He hauls himself along on the ropes, trying to ignore the agony biting up his leg with every step. They’re heading home, and he’s looking forward to getting off the ship. There’s no respite on board. He needs to be on his feet, up and down ladders between decks, and he mustn’t complain. Mustn’t show weakness, not for a moment. 

In Nassau, for a few coins, he can have a night in a bed. He doesn’t even care about what else will be happening in that bed—his dreams are all about sheets and mattresses and being able to lie in a comfortable position without moving for hours. A night when he doesn’t have to think about the ship or the crew or the impossible task of holding everything together. And rum; enough rum to drown himself, to deaden the pain and send him into a dreamless sleep, instead of a ration from a quickly-dwindling supply. 

It’s just a prickle in the back of his neck, but he knows Flint is there, goddamnit. It’s some sort of self-preservation technique that’s been branded into whatever messaging service exists between his brain and the rest of him; Flint may need the sound of the metal foot to know that Silver’s there, but the reverse is not true.

He looks up. Flint is on the quarterdeck, looking down at him, and his head gives a small jerk as their eyes meet. Silver knows what that means. Flint wants to speak to him. Privately. _Shit._

They haven’t spoken alone since that argument, and Silver was perfectly content to let that state of affairs continue, however awkward it made their respective positions on the ship. Briefly, he considers ignoring Flint, but only briefly. Flint will not be ignored; if his subtle signals go unnoticed, he’ll simply get less subtle. 

Manoeuvring the companionway seems to get harder every day, and he’s already in a snarling temper by the time he gets to Flint’s cabin. Flint is there ahead of him, standing with his back to Silver and leafing through a book. 

‘ _What?_ ’ He slams the door behind him. 

The unreasonable part of his mind says that if he is such an unwelcome addition to the crew, then Flint can bloody well run the ship on his own. Or let Silver run it. Stop making him climb ladders, anyway. 

‘Who would you suggest?’ Flint doesn’t look round. 

‘The fuck are you talking about?’ Silver hobbles to the table, and pushes himself onto the edge of it, unable to help the grunt of relief as the weight comes off his leg.

Flint turns and looks him up and down. ‘Are you in pain?’ 

‘No.’ Another lie, and an obvious one, but it needs to be the truth for now. ‘Who do I suggest for what?’ 

There’s that insulting edge again in Flint’s gaze. The edge that cuts through the layers of what Silver’s become, and exposes to the light the fact that, not so long ago, he was just a cook who couldn’t cook—not to mention a thief. 

‘Your idea, Silver. To replace me on the vanguard. I assume you weren’t intending to fill my place yourself.’ 

Is he serious? Or is this just another test, his usual thrust and parry of wits? Silver doesn’t have the energy for it at the moment. 

‘Tormund. Or Briggs. They’re good fighters. Put Billy in command, in your position. Cover his face, and nobody'll know it isn’t you. Won’t hurt your legend to put another few inches on your height. That’s my suggestion, which you’re now free to go ahead and ignore to your heart’s content.’ He slides off the table, with a faint hiss as the foot hits the ground. 

Flint’s eyes narrow. ‘Are you keeping that thing clean?’ 

‘When I want someone to worry about my washing habits, I’ll take a wife,’ Silver snaps. 

The ship sways, just a normal movement that makes Flint do no more than shift his weight, but Silver isn’t holding onto anything, and he doesn't have the balance anymore. He staggers and grabs the table for support, the boot hitting the floor hard. For a second, the agony is so fucking blinding, he can only close his eyes and clutch the edge of the table with both hands while he waits for it to pass. 

When he looks up, sweat beaded on his forehead, Flint is right beside him. Too close for comfort. 

‘You need to sit down and rest,’ Flint says, his voice steady. ‘If you tear that leg ragged, you’re no use to anyone. Sit.’ 

He takes Silver’s arm above the elbow, a commanding gesture, and pushes him towards Flint’s own bunk. Silver resists. 

‘Don’t worry yourself, _Captain_ ,’ he says, with a sneer. ‘When I need to rest, I'll do it elsewhere. If I’m so unwelcome on your ship, I can only imagine how much more unwelcome I am in your cabin.’ 

For a moment, Flint stares at him, eyes stony. Then he closes them briefly, and when they re-open, some of the hardness has gone. 

‘Stop being a child and sit the fuck down.’ 

He pushes Silver, who somehow finds himself sitting on the bunk. Silver has to admit that it’s a relief, but he refuses to show it. Instead, he folds his arms and stares Flint down. 

‘A child? Seriously? I’m keeping this ship running for you. I’m keeping the men on board with your… your… With whatever the fuck this is! I’m working day in, day out, to fulfil the trust they’ve put in me, even though I haven’t got a fucking clue what I’m doing with any of it, and now I’m being a _child_?’ 

He stops himself. He hadn’t meant to say the last part, but he’s so tired he’s almost desperate. What was he thinking, though? All he’s done is confirm what Flint believes anyway: that he’s not up to the job. 

What he’s not expecting is that Flint will sigh, then come and sit down beside him on the bunk. He opens his mouth to speak, but Flint gets there first. 

‘I apologise for what I said the other day. I was angry. Happy now?’ 

Silver’s mouth stays open for a moment. He’s not entirely sure what’s happening anymore. Did James Flint just apologise for offending him? 

‘Not particularly,’ he says, truthfully. ‘I’m tired. I have half a leg. I want to be ashore. This afternoon, Dooley and Adams started a fight in the mess over whether or not a whale is a fucking fish. So, no, _happy_ isn’t exactly…’ 

‘Jesus, Silver,’ Flint interrupts, sounding weary. ‘Is it possible to have a straightforward conversation with you, where I ask a question and you answer it?’ 

There’s a pause, while Silver restrains his temper. 

‘Well, I don’t know. I was attempting to have a straightforward conversation with you the other day, but it didn’t go so well.’ 

Flint almost smiles. There’s definitely an upward movement at the corner of his lips. 

‘Very well. Point taken. All your points taken, in fact. We’ll try Tormund in the next raid. See how it goes.’ 

The conversation hasn’t gone as Silver was expecting it to go. He’s left with nothing to feel angry about, which is disconcerting, since anger is mostly what’s kept him moving over the last few days. There’s a pause.

‘A whale is not a fucking fish,’ Flint says, eventually. 

The laugh is wrenched out of Silver against his will, but once he’s started, it’s hard to stop. After a momentary stare, eyebrows raised, Flint also chuckles, and it might be the first time Silver’s really seen Flint laugh since Charles Town. 

‘Well,’ Silver says, at last, beginning to struggle to his feet. ‘Thank you. For listening to my suggestion. I’ll tell Tormund…’ 

Flint grabs the back of his shirt and pulls him back down. 

‘I told you to fucking rest.’ 

For a moment, there's a slightly undignified struggle, then Silver gives in and slumps back onto the bunk. Flint’s hand remains at his back, which is… odd. It’s the only word Silver can come up with for the moment. 

‘You’re an arsehole, Flint, you know that?’ he says, almost conversationally. 

‘And you are possibly one of the most irritating people I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet,’ Flint replies. ‘I daresay we balance each other out.’ 

There’s no heat in his words this time, though. No sting behind them. Just a different kind of warmth, a warmth that’s barely noticeable, except in comparison to what Silver’s more used to from Flint. In fact, he’s not sure that he hasn’t imagined it, that he’s not just feeling an absence of coldness, which is not the same thing. But he isn’t imagining Flint’s hand still on the small of his back, just resting there as if Flint’s forgotten it, and he isn’t imagining his own response to it either. 

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. Somewhere in the most honest depths of his mind, he knows he’s been fighting something like this for a long time, and the fucking _last_ thing he needs is for it to come rearing its head right now, and…

‘Silver.’ 

Against his better judgement—indeed, his better judgement is screaming at him inside his head—he looks at Flint. And his head swims, because there is _no_ reason for Flint to be looking at him like that. 

There are things Silver wants to say, and things he wants to _do_ that he couldn’t say in a million years, but he can't speak or move. Flint’s hand has moved higher up his back, and their bodies are half-angled towards each other. They are very close together, and for a man known for his grimness and his secrecy, Flint’s face is sure as hell expressive when he allows it to be.

John Silver is very unaccustomed to being lost for words. 

‘Am I wrong about this?’ Flint asks, very low. 

And for a moment, Silver wants to laugh, because it’s so bloody typical of Flint that he would ask like that. A question phrased so that a ‘No’ would be a ‘Yes’, and vice versa. Then, at the expression in Flint’s eyes, the urge to laugh disappears, because Flint is _very_ serious, and something dissolves low down in Silver’s stomach. 

He jerks away. One hand knocks Flint’s away from him, and the other pushes Silver up off the bunk in an awkward, hurried scramble. His leg shrieks at him, but he takes no notice. 

‘Stop.’ For a moment, it’s all he can say, his breath coming heavily. But, amid the emotions raging inside him like a hurricane, he settles on one: fucking _fury_. ‘What the hell was that? You’re insane, Flint! What, d'you think you can pretend I’m _her_?’ 

Flint starts to speak, his eyes like ice, his face rigid. Silver cuts him off. 

‘No, you know what? We’re not going to talk about this. Not now, not ever. It never fucking happened, all right? Now. I am going to get on with my job, inform Billy of the new plan, and tell Tormund he’ll be wanted on the next vanguard.’ 

Flint makes no protest. Says nothing at all as Silver hobbles away from him. Once he’s outside, the door closed, Silver stops and closes his eyes, fists clenched. 

He can tell himself that he stopped Flint because clearly whatever happened there was just another symptom of Flint’s madness. That he stopped him because he knows that Flint is only really feeling pain and anger and loneliness over Mrs Barlow’s death. He can tell himself he stopped Flint because he, Silver, does not feel those things about his captain, or about any man. That he didn’t want what Flint was offering. He can tell himself those things, but the problem is that the one person Silver has never successfully lied to is himself. 

Truth is, the only thing that made him stop Flint was that bloody Spanish gold. Because whatever else he does, he will not kiss James Flint with a lie on his lips. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very quick update, and part three will be along very soon. Originally this was all meant to be a oneshot, I just decided it worked better split properly. This chapter stops just short of getting smutty (sorry).

Flint’s door is open, and he is sitting at his desk, facing it. Silver pauses in the doorway, his hands on the frame either side of him, and for a moment, they just stare at each other.

Since that day— _that_ day, which is as close as Silver will come to describing it, even in his own head—they have been to hell and back. Silver’s never felt so bloody helpless as when he was watching the men, his men, his brothers, die slowly on the decks, feeling himself weaken with them. He’s never known despair like it, even when being held down on a table while Howell sawed his leg off. 

And since that day, he’s only been in Flint’s cabin when Billy was there too. That desperate struggle on the launch this afternoon was the first time they’ve been alone. Flint’s made little attempt, during this time, to hide what he thinks of Silver or Silver’s opinions. He’s hardly even kept up appearances in front of the crew. But today, Silver thinks—or hopes—there’s been another change. 

In the doorway, he waits. For something; he’s not sure what. 

Flint moves his head sideways. An invitation, or at least an acquiescence to the fact that Silver intends to come inside. Silver limps into the cabin and pushes the door closed behind him. 

‘How are the men?’ Flint asks. 

‘They’ve been better. But spirits are up, and they’ll recover. I suppose we all will, now we’re moving.’ 

‘And what about you?’

‘Well.’ Silver advances into the room, and sits down without being asked, easing his leg out in front of him. ‘I appear to be still alive, which is more than I half expected when I told you what I told you in the launch today.’ 

Flint’s eyebrows flicker. ‘Well, I didn’t much fancy trying to row back alone. Nothing to stop me making up for that now, though, is there?’ 

He’s not going to, though, and they both know it. If he was, he’d have done it in the launch, return journey or no return journey. Flint leans forward on the desk, and for a long moment he stares at Silver. That searching look will never stop being unnerving. 

‘I haven’t thought of you as _lesser_ than me for quite some time, Mr Silver,’ Flint says at last. ‘I just wanted to clear that up, since it’s what you seemed to be implying earlier.’ 

Silver blinks, absorbing this. Is Flint lying? There’s no sign of it, but Silver isn’t the only good liar in the room. 

‘Right. Well.’ Silver’s lips twist into a small smile. ‘Thank you for that, I suppose.’ 

‘Neither,’ Flint goes on, ‘did I ever wish or intend to pretend that you were Mrs Barlow. That would be an insult to her—and to you.’ 

He delivers this in the same quiet tone he delivered the previous revelation, and it takes Silver a second or two to realise what he’s said and what he’s referring to. It takes another second or two for him to get his breath back, and when he does, he realises that his face is burning, and that Flint is looking at him with something almost like amusement. 

God-fucking- _damn_ him. 

‘Also good to know.’ Silver makes an attempt at a breezy tone, and he wishes he could believe that it was dehydration making his voice crack slightly in the middle. 

‘So, with that out of the way, we can now go back to your decree that we will never speak of this again. If that’s still what you want.’ Flint pushes his chair an inch or two back from the table and leans back in it, apparently relaxed.

Silver, studying him, isn’t fooled. ‘Are we also going to pretend that what I told you in the launch never happened?’ 

Flint sighs. ‘What are my choices, Silver? Tell the men. Put you on trial. Undermine all the trust we’ve built up on this ship and risk destroying the crew through it. Alternatively, keep it to myself and punish you for it by hating you. Treat you as my enemy. Ultimately, the crew would end up having to make a choice between you and me, and the result would be the same.’ 

He stops, and Silver waits, then raises his eyebrows. 

‘I was assuming there was an _’or’_ coming there.’ 

Flint’s mouth forms a grim smile. ‘ _Or_ I decide to forgive you. I knew what you were when I took you onto the crew. The crew knew what you were when they voted you in as Quartermaster. And you know what I am. If you didn’t when you joined us, you do now. You know what I am perhaps better than any other person still living. I do have one question for you, though.’ 

‘Oh, yes?’ Silver feels that he is on something of a knife edge. 'What's that?' 

‘Would you do the same now, if given the chance? Would you sell the gold to Rackham?’ 

The relief that floods him takes him by surprise. Relief that he can answer the question easily. That he doesn’t have to lie. 

‘No. I wouldn't.’ 

Flint just nods, as if the answer is what he was expecting. ‘Good. That’s that, then.’ 

_That’s that?_

‘That’s all you have to say about it?’ Silver can hear the incredulity in his own voice. 

‘If you have some ideas about what else I should say, do feel free to share them.’ 

The cabin is very quiet, only the faint rock and creak of the moving ship, and the odd call from on deck. Outside, dark is falling fast. There’s a small candle lantern on a bracket on the far wall, but it only cast a faint, glimmering light around them. Silver leans forward, his hands on his thighs, and for a few moments neither of them speaks. 

‘Did you love her?’ 

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he’s wondering what the fuck possessed him to ask them. Has he not pushed Flint far enough? Flint doesn’t move, and Silver forces himself to be still too. Waiting. 

‘Of course I did. Do.’ Flint’s voice is very low. 

If it wasn’t almost dark, if they could see each other’s faces properly, he’s not sure Flint would be confessing this to him. Silver certainly wouldn’t have been able to speak his next words. 

‘And yet you tried to kiss me, and I’m supposed to believe that you wouldn’t have been thinking of her.’ 

Flint makes an impatient movement, a twitch of his hand. ‘I can’t expect you to understand…’ 

‘Can’t you?’ 

There’s a pause, then Flint lets out a long breath. 

‘What Miranda and I shared never excluded others. It was no less real and important because of that. I think of her all the time. That does not mean that I was trying to recreate with you what I had with her.’ There’s another breath of a pause. ‘Is that the reason you…’ 

‘No, it's not.’ 

Flint's right; he doesn’t entirely understand. But he trusts the truth in Flint’s voice. Silver pushes himself out of the chair, and his head spins at the sudden movement, reminding him of how little he’s had to eat or drink in the last few days. A few strides take him around the desk. Flint doesn’t move, but his sudden tension tells Silver that he’s taken Flint by surprise. 

‘I’d told you a lie. An important lie. It mattered. I couldn’t let you touch me, knowing that that remained between us, that I’d been dishonest with you and you didn’t know it. _That_ is the reason.’ 

Flint looks steadily at him, his face half in shadow and his eyes hard to read. ‘I see.’ 

‘Now you know the truth. If you’d known it then, would you still have done what you did?’ 

He realises, as he speaks, just what deep water he is swimming in. Because the answer to his question also matters, it matters far more than it should, far more than he wants it to. Flint can talk about forgiveness, act like he’s drawn a line under the whole thing, but Silver needs to know it’s true. _Really_ true, in Flint’s heart as well as in his head. 

Flint’s finger taps the desk slowly. Once, twice. ‘Perhaps not.’ 

And there it is. Silver takes a sharp breath in, battling for some control. He can't show how much that fucking hurts. He _mustn’t_ show it. He starts to turn away, one hand leaning on Flint’s desk for support. And Flint’s hand closes around his wrist. 

‘What…?’ Silver starts.

‘But then again, perhaps I would,’ Flint goes on, as if Silver hadn’t spoken, as if Flint isn’t pinning him to the spot with his grip. ‘And a great deal can change in a few days.’ 

Why, _why_ is Flint always capable of tying him in fucking knots? 

‘What the hell does that mean?’ he asks, roughly. 

‘I was forced into some realisations in the past few days. You walked away from me, and I imagined that you were disgusted. That I’d become a monster, even to you. And that, I found, was something hard to bear.’ 

The way Flint looks at him, the heat in that gaze, the feeling of Flint’s fingers on the skin of his wrist—they’re enough to still an ocean, to make the tides stop turning. 

Silver is no longer a coward. With his free hand, he reaches up, and his fingers brush Flint’s jawline, feeling the wiry bristles of his beard, the tenseness of the muscles beneath. The faintest pressure tilts Flint’s chin up towards him, and Silver leans down. 

Their lips are dry and chapped by lack of water. Silver is both hurried and uncertain, because he’s started this, but he doesn’t know how to finish it. He’s never kissed a man before, never kissed _anyone_ except in the most casual, unimportant ways, and he breaks away after only a moment and looks down at Flint, still so close he feel Flint's breath. Whatever this is, it is neither casual nor unimportant. 

And Flint, damn him, smiles. Slowly, languidly, as if he knows exactly how fast Silver’s heart is racing, and _likes_ it. 

So Silver kisses him again, harder this time, his hands on Flint’s shoulders, their mouths crushed together, rough and hungry. Flint’s hand releases his wrist, and lifts to the back of Silver’s head, fingers tangling in his hair. His other hand— _God_ , his other hand comes to rest on Silver’s hip and pulls him closer. Silver is half bloody straddling Flint, and the kiss tastes of salt and shark meat. 

‘Fuck,’ he breathes, as they separate. His lip is smarting where a dry spot has split open, and his leg isn’t in the most comfortable position, but he hardly cares. 

Flint makes a murmured sound that sounds like agreement, although Silver’s not quite sure what he’s agreeing to. What he does know is that he’s going to have to move before Flint makes any more noises like that, or the situation might get even more out of control. He moves back, and Flint’s hands fall away from him, eyes narrowing into a question. 

‘Are you…?’ Flint starts. 

Silver casts a glance at the door. ‘It’s not bolted.’ 

Flint lets out a huff of laughter. ‘True. Maybe we should spare Billy from the risk of catching sight of this.’ 

‘And I should get up on deck. Check what’s happening. A lot of the men still aren’t going to be up to taking watches.’ 

He moves towards the door, trying not to look like he’s in a hurry. Flint must know that his head’s in turmoil, but that doesn’t mean he has to show it.

‘All right. Come back and report. When you can.’ 

There’s hardly anything out of the ordinary in Flint’s voice, just the merest inflection that makes Silver glance back over his shoulder. Flint is still sitting where he left him, and, with a little more distance between them, Silver is able to summon something like his usual smile. 

‘Very well. And next time, we’ll bolt the door.’ 

He escapes before Flint can respond.


	3. Chapter 3

Once, John Silver did not understand how it was possible to give your heart to more than one person, to give all your love to someone and yet still have just as much left over. To love two people, each for themselves, whole and entire, with no diminishment of one because of your feelings for the other.

What Flint never tried to explain to him, because perhaps Flint didn’t know it either, not then, was what happens when those two loves pull in opposite directions. How easy it is to be ripped apart by them. 

Now Silver knows. Now he understands. 

The irony is that if he asked either of the two people he loves, they’d say that they are pulling in the same direction, and it is he who is going the wrong way. 

He leans his forehead against the door, fist clenched against the wood, willing himself to go in. Over the past months, he’s convinced himself that he’s no coward. That his days of running and hiding are over. Flint thinks it’s cowardice that’s driving him now, but he’s wrong. 

So why the hell is he so fucking frightened to go in there and face what he’s done? 

It takes him much longer than he likes before he gets his hand on the door handle and turns it. But once the door’s open, there’s no going back. Flint is there, sitting on the floor, disregarding the fact that they provided him with both a chair and a hammock. Head bowed, shackled wrists in front of him. And Silver asks himself, all over again, whether he’s doing the right thing. 

The trouble is, he knows the answer: No, of course he isn’t doing the right fucking thing. He’s doing the _only_ thing. 

‘Well.’ Flint looks up, his face blank. ‘You took your time. Start to miss me, did you?’ 

Silver isn’t fooled. Flint knows exactly why he hasn’t been in here to see him yet. How could he not know, when he can read Silver as easily as he reads the wind in the sails? But of course, he won’t make this easy. Why should he? 

Silver pushes the door closed with the end of his crutch and swings himself into the room. 

‘You know I don’t want to do this,’ he says, and hates himself for saying it. It’s meaningless, isn’t it? It’s the platitude of a father holding a strap in his hand, before he administers the beating anyway. 

‘And yet, here we are,’ Flint says, his voice deceptively mild. 

‘Fuck’s sake, Flint!’ Silver bursts out. ‘You can’t seriously think this is the ending I wanted? That I’m, what, standing here gloating?’ 

Flint meets his eye, gaze level, expression cold. 

‘It seems to me that there’s only one thing you’ve wanted from the beginning, Silver: your own survival. So you may not be gloating, but yes, I think this is exactly the end you want. Can you tell me I’m wrong?’ 

Silver spins himself around and leaves the cabin without a word. 

*

He returns the next day, because what kind of person is he, if he can sentence a man, but must turn his back while the sentence is carried out? And Flint is in a different mood; Silver can tell as soon as he enters the cabin. Flint is sitting in the chair, angled slightly away from the door, watching the swell of the sea through the window. 

‘Did it mean anything to you?’ he asks, as Silver enters. 

Silver feels his heart rise into his throat. He swallows. ‘Did what mean anything?’ 

‘The war. Nassau. What we were trying to make.’ 

He had thought for a moment that Flint meant something different. This question is easier, and he relaxes. 

‘Of course, it did. For a while, you had me right there with you.’ 

Flint's head tilts slightly. ‘You never thought we could win.’ 

‘Well, _thinking_ is not the same as _hoping_.’ Silver half smiles, manoeuvring himself closer to Flint, so that he can see at least part of his face. 

‘We could have. We could have won.’ 

‘And how many people would you have been prepared to sacrifice before you either won or gave up?’ Silver asks 

Flint doesn’t move. 

‘All this for the memory of one man.’ Silver knows he’s pushing his luck, but it’s too late to worry about that now. ‘All these years, you’ve gathered followers. You’ve taken them into battle again and again. How many men have fought and died for the sake of Thomas Hamilton?’ 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that Flint’s hands have clenched. 

‘And yet,’ he goes on, almost thoughtfully, ‘now, when I tell you that you can have Thomas Hamilton back from the dead, it’s as if you don’t want him. As if you’re more comfortable fighting wars for a dead man than coming face to face with a living one. _Can you tell me I’m wrong?_ ’ 

Flint rises from his chair, and Silver automatically draws back, despite Flint’s shackles. 

‘You’re a liar, Silver. You lied the day I met you, and you’ve been lying ever since. Give me one good reason why I should believe that you’re telling me the truth now. Why I should believe this fucking fairytale that Thomas is in Savannah. One reason.’ 

‘Because what fucking reason would I have to lie?’ Silver demands, his temper fraying. _And do you think that whatever is between us means so little to me that, if I was going to lie, I’d make it such a cruel one?_

‘Now? None, except your shame and cowardice. When we were sitting in the forest, while you held a gun to my head? Every reason in the world. I assume that even you found it preferable to take me a willing prisoner, rather than blow my brains out.’ 

Words like _shame_ and _cowardice_ and _even you_ are meant to wound, and they do. But Silver holds himself steady.

‘I am not lying to you,’ he says, quietly. 

Flint gives him a long, hard look, and turns away again. 

*

When Silver returns again, Flint is standing up, still staring out of the window, leaning on the frame of it. He makes no sign that he’s heard Silver enter, but Silver has been thinking. Thinking about Flint, about what he knows of Flint, about the story Flint told him of Thomas Hamilton. 

He walks up beside him and leans on the frame at the other side. ‘Thomas Hamilton’s never met James Flint, has he?’ he says. 

Flint’s silence tells him that he’s on the mark. That he's got to the vulnerable spot in Flint's head.

‘You don’t want to believe me,’ he goes on. ‘You don’t want Hamilton back, because _you_ never had him in the first place. James McGraw was the man Hamilton fell in love with. You’re not McGraw anymore.’ 

Flint turns his head slowly to look at him, and there’s an expression on his face that Silver’s not sure he’s ever seen before. It’s as grim as ever, but there’s something softer and less certain behind the grimness. Something that could even be fear. Whatever it is, Flint is neither swearing at him nor trying to attack him, which Silver can only take as a good sign. 

‘But you could be,’ he adds, quietly. 

‘ _What?_ ’ A single word, spoken low, trembling between anger and incredulity. 

Silver stares out of the window, his thumb rubbing over a rough splinter of wood. They are sailing at a good pace. They’ll be in Savannah in a matter of days. 

‘Captain Flint isn’t real. You invented him, created him, built him up, a perfect work of fiction for your vengeance. Now you could let him go. Find something else in you, something Hamilton will recognise.’ He turns to look at Flint, and his voice is little more than a murmur, but Flint is close enough to hear him. ‘Let James McGraw go to meet Thomas Hamilton again.’ 

Flint is staring at him, and his eyes are so distant that Silver wonders for a moment whether Flint listened to anything he just said. Then his lips part. 

‘Kiss me.’ 

‘I’m sorry—what?’ Silver’s heart thumps. After all this, after everything he’s done, he never imagined for a moment that _kissing_ Flint would be something he’d get to do again. 

‘You heard. Kiss me,’ Flint says again, more insistently. 

God help him, but he does it. One hand roughly at the back of Flint’s neck, feeling the short, stubbled hair there as he pulls him in and kisses him hard. It’s brief but urgent. Flint’s shackled hands can’t go far, but they clutch handfuls of the front of Silver’s shirt, and the lean muscles of Flint’s chest press up again his. When they pull back, they’re both panting, breathless as if they’d been kissing much longer and deeper. 

And fuck, Silver could _cry_. Indeed, he’s not sure that there aren’t tears on his cheeks, because that’s the last time, isn’t it? _Has_ to be the last time, because if he lets it happen again, he’s not sure he’ll be able to go through with this plan, and he must go through with it. 

Flint’s thumb strokes along Silver’s cheekbone once, then his hands drop. ‘Thank you,’ he whispers, and something has changed in his voice. ‘I’m sorry I doubted you.’ 

Silver frowns. ‘Doubted me?’ 

Flint turns and rests both arms along the top frame of the window, bracing himself there. Silver can’t see his face any more. 

‘You wouldn’t kiss me once, because you’d lied to me. You couldn’t let me touch you with that between us. A lot’s changed since then, but I don’t think that has, has it?’ 

Silver can’t speak, but when Flint turns back to him, there’s a light in his eyes. A light Silver has never seen. 

‘Thomas is there,’ he says. ‘Thomas is alive and in Savannah, isn’t he?’ 

Silver’s mouth twists into a smile. ‘Yes. Yes, James, he is.’ 

It’s the first time he’s ever called him _James_. But it's right, because some small part of Captain Flint has already fallen away. 

And some small part of John Silver’s heart has fallen with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this was overwhelmingly angsty, I'm so sorry. If it's any consolation I 100% refuse to believe that this was the last time the paths of James Flint/McGraw and John Silver crossed (Treasure Island? What's Treasure Island?), so you never know, there might be something happier at some point.


End file.
